


not even a sheriff's map

by goodbyechunkylemonmilk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyechunkylemonmilk/pseuds/goodbyechunkylemonmilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sirius finds himself losing control, he writes to James, thinking the letter won't get to him in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not even a sheriff's map

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: focused explicitly on suicidal thoughts, includes references to child abuse and self-harm
> 
> The title comes from _Jazz_ by Toni Morrison. The whole quote is "He was more than Joe's chosen brother, he was his best friend, and they hunted through and worked in most of Vesper County. Not even a sheriff's map would show the walnut tree Joe fell out of, but Victory would remember it."

Regulus knocks on Sirius' bedroom door as loud and fast as he can with one hand while trying unlocking spells with the other. He knows what Sirius uses, has heard him mutter it, thinking himself discreet, often enough. James said, “Unless I hear otherwise, I'm going to assume he's all right,” but Regulus doesn't have that kind of faith, forced or otherwise, and the image of his brother lying blank-eyed and still in his room is too vivid to allow other thoughts.

After too long, Sirius calls, “ _Stop._ You're giving me a headache.” His voice is strong, healthy; Regulus almost faints from relief, and then, easy as anything, the counterspell pops into his head and he lets himself in. Sirius is nowhere near as bad-off as Regulus expected, upright, at least, but he's still wearing his day robes, open to the waist so angry red marks are visible on his chest. He shuts it when he notices Regulus looking, crosses his arms so the fabric doesn't flap open.

“Potter told me you might be doing something stupid in here. He's on his way.”

Sirius looks up, caught. “You talked to James?”

“Firecall. I had to talk him out of trying to floo even though all our fireplaces are restricted access. He's really worried. And kind of stupid.” Regulus can't help sneering, as if he doesn't feel the same concern.

“He didn't ask for me?”

“He was in a rush.” Here Regulus' voice can't decide whether it wants to be harsh or high with concern, and his next words come out choked. “He was concerned, _for some reason_ , that you were going to kill yourself.”

“He told you?”

“He told me he thought you might do something stupid. I put the pieces together.”

“I was upset and I wrote to James. Don't worry, all right?”

“It's got to take at least an hour for an owl to get from here to the Potters'. Why didn't you—” Regulus waves his hand as if the gesture can contain the magnitude of the question. “And don't say you weren't really considering it because Potter wouldn't have contacted me if he didn't think it was serious.”

“I didn't want you to find me.”

“What?”

“I'm a shite older brother, all right? I know that. I can't protect you from them and I can't open up to you and I never know what to say and I'm completely bloody useless. The least I could do is not traumatize you by making you stumble upon my corpse. Of course _they_ wouldn't deign to do something as common as check on their child, and Kreacher doesn't come in my room anymore, so—” Sirius shrugs.

Regulus considers this for a moment, then laughs. “I've never been so happy you're a rebellious prat.” It feels wrong to be lighthearted, but he's scared, not surprised, and now he's confirmed that Sirius is alive, this is just another reality of their existence. “You better have written me a note too." He's looked around not-so-surreptitiously and hasn't seen anything that looks like it might be for him. "Planned to scrawl one with your blood, _something_.” And finally Sirius grins, begins to relax, arms dropping to his sides. He nods, and Regulus pretends not to be relieved.

“You don't have to stay, you know. I didn't do it before, I certainly won't now. It was just a bad moment.”

“Right.” Regulus leans against the door, shutting it behind him. “A 'moment' long enough for you to write and send a letter. Nothing's _wrong_ or anything.” Regulus shifts uncomfortably, wonders when they stopped telling each other everything. (Sirius' second night back from Hogwarts, he said, voice betraying pain though no marks were visible, “Don't be like me, all right?” but Regulus heard, “You're not strong enough to be like me,” instead of a protective warning.) He forces out, “I'm sure you'll get a chance to return the favor, don't worry.” Being able to get Sirius to laugh genuinely, rather than the mocking bark that's supposed to make the recipient hurt like he is, was always a point of pride for Regulus when they were younger, and maybe he hasn't completely shed it, because warmth floods through him at Sirius' response.

When he stops laughing, he stares at Regulus even harder than before. “You _will_ come to me though?”

“Yeah, not like you. Shove over.” He sits on the bed, crowding into Sirius' space like he hasn't in too long, and doesn't expect it but isn't shocked when Sirius lies down, head in his lap. He wonders if this is what it was like to be the older brother, if it always feels this protective. Sirius made a point, until now, of doing the best imitation of stability a scared kid can manage, and Regulus has let him.

“Bloody hell,” Regulus says when Sirius makes a contented noise in response to the stroking of his hair. “You're such a baby, you know that?” Regulus can't see his face, but he can feel the way Sirius' shoulders tense against his thighs. “Not because you almost killed yourself. But you pretend to be so _hard_ , don't you, so uncaring and detached, but you're as bad as I am. Maybe worse. What was it. The fight?” It wasn't even a bad one, ten minutes of yelling about the length of his hair. (James insists, according to Sirius, that long hair is fashionable, but their parents say it makes him look like a particularly low-class mudblood.)

“I don' know how much longer I can stay here.” Regulus' heart clenches and he grows so cold he's shocked Sirius can't feel it in his fingers.

“Did you say that to Potter?”

“Well.” The left side of Sirius' mouth quirks up, though at this angle and this time of night, Regulus had to think before he's sure this interpretation is correct. “I'm not sure what all I wrote, it was sort of a haze. That was the crux of it, though, so I assume I did.”

Regulus' hand tightens momentarily in Sirius' hair. “Sorry,” he says, has to force his fingers to relax one by one. “I suppose he'll be taking you back with him then.”

“You say that like he makes decisions for me.” Sirius doesn't see the humor in this, when Regulus laughs. He sits up, managing somehow to emanate righteous indignation with every movement. He shifts so they're almost as close as before, his legs tucked under his body, making him tower over Regulus sitting as he does standing. “I'm not leaving.”

Regulus bites the insider of his cheek against the hopefulness trying to bloom. “You should. You'd be happier.”

“I'm not leaving _you_. You'd be alone with them.” Sirius says this like it's simple, logical, like he didn't just almost kill himself over it.

“They don't treat me the way they do you. I'm fine.”

“They're still horrible. I can't do that to you. I'll have to leave someday, but you're still so young.” Regulus rolls his eyes and puffs out his chest even though Sirius has stopped looking at him, eyes focused on some far-off imaginary point. Twelve-almost-thirteen isn't _young_. “Anyway, when I go, I'll want you to come with me, of course. You ought to talk to James more, we'll be staying at his parents' until we can get a flat.”

“You don't have to worry about me.”

“Right, but I do.” Regulus sighs and says nothing; Sirius will be easily convinced once James arrives.

It takes him another half hour, but finally there's the clatter of someone at the window, which Regulus knows a mature person would have opened in advance, but which he has not. Once James clambers inside, he holds up his broom and gestures to the second tied to it, looking satisfied with himself. “I brought this for you. Come back with me.” And this is it—Regulus takes a deep breath and holds it, because Sirius will go, Sirius has to go, how can he not go? And Regulus can't begrudge him that; it is bad for both of them but worse for Sirius, who seems to have forgotten how to keep his head down ever since going to Hogwarts. It is bad for both of them but worse for one, worse alone.

“I'm not leaving. It's nothing.”

“What?” Regulus demands, half-disgusted, half-pleased. He looks to James, who will surely protest, but James is occupied searching for something in his inner and outer pockets. Regulus and Sirius realize what he's doing at the same time, and Regulus leans in as Sirius says, wounded, “James, _don't_.”

“'James,'” he says, then pauses. “It's hard to read. The handwriting...” His voice shakes when he repeats his name, “'James. I can't do this anymore, I can't be here. I can't I can't I think I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm glad I'm going to die. I'm sorry I shouldn't send this but I had to say goodbye. You—'” James cuts off abruptly. “Well. That's all that's relevant, I suppose.” Sirius, who's grown paler and paler throughout James' little performance, won't look up. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—”

“You shouldn't have,” Regulus says coldly. Though he's glad, maybe, to know.

“I just. This place is killing him.” He winces, turns. “You. It's killing you.”

“I had a bad night.” Regulus snorts. “A really bad night. I'm not leaving. End of discussion. Reg needs me.”

“I'm not _weak_ ,” he huffs, counterproductive as it feels.

“You're not, but you'd stay for me.”

“They're not that bad to me.”

“I'm not leaving you alone with them. I'm _not,_ so you can both just stop. Reg, I'm sorry this woke you up. James, I'm sorry you had to fly here for no reason. I won't do anything, okay, I'm sorry.”

“You don't have anything to be sorry for. I'm not— We're not worried about ourselves, you know? Not now. The point isn't that we'd be sad if you'd gone through with it, though we would, of course, because we love you, but. That's not what matters. _You_ matter. Your happiness matters. I'm sure Regulus agrees.” And that's easy for James to say, isn't it, because he's the one who wins if Sirius leaves, but he's also right. So Regulus nods, then smiles when the abrupt jerk of his head feels insincere.

“He's right. Worry about yourself for once.”

“I wouldn't be happy if I left you here all alone, all right? That's my choice and I stand by it. Look, I admit that I'm going to have to leave at some point, all right? I have a limit. But this isn't it.” Sirius checks his watch. “You should head back. Your parents excuse a lot, but I think even they'll be upset by a late-night trip to London, especially because you're not going to tell them why.”

“Of course not.” James backs toward the window, not taking his eyes off them, and Regulus, biting back a smirk, doesn't think it's outlandish to say he looks jealous. “You're always welcome at my house you know. Both of you.” James seats himself on the windowsill, swings his legs over, and jumps out, brooms still very much in hand, rather than under him. Even as Regulus gasps, he knows he's being stupid, that Sirius will laugh at him, which he does, but kindly. “Theatrical idiot.”

James rises then, so Sirius repeats, louder, “Idiot.” James is hard to see in the dark of a new moon, but his laugh is audible, and before he flies off, Regulus can just make out a hand gesture that might be a wave but is probably something ruder. Sirius laughs, sincerely.


End file.
